10

Mid-December

When I first realized Yuna left, it felt like all the energy in the room had said its goodbyes, threw on its coat, and walked out the door with her. Whatever centripetal force had been keeping me in my state of flux had stalled and collapsed and with it, my composure. She was the weight lifted from my shoulder I didn't know I needed, and there I stood in the middle of a party feeling more shadow and vapor than solid human presence.

Rikku's expression said it all: Yuna left with no intention of saying goodbye. I had caught the machinist off guard, her mouth full of birthday cake in lieu of an explanation.

"Did she leave?" I asked point-blank.

At first, Rikku shook her head, chewing on a piece of disintegrated buttercream until her mouth had nothing left to do. An explanation finally came to mind and she nodded.

"She was feeling sick. I think she had too much to drink."

I knew that wasn't true. I had spent enough time upstairs with Yuna to know she was completely sober, but judging from Rikku's tone and expression it seemed like the summoner had surprised us both.

"Sick? How sick? Why would she leave by herself if she's sick?"

"Tidus…" Rikku began slowly. "I don't know what to tell you. She just wasn't feeling well. Let it go for now," she said, sympathetic hand on my sad, sad shoulder.

But I didn't let it go. I couldn't let it go. My mind replayed every minute leading up to the present with sharp scrutiny. I went from confused to partly in denial. Somewhere between a layer of sugar and fruit the idea that Yuna was disappointed in my apology had revealed itself to me. I wondered if it were easier for her to believe that I was just a drunk and not a human capable of remorse. She preferred I didn't tell the truth and I was angry at her for it, as if I wanted to throw myself under the bus, mention his name, and paint myself the Bad Guy. But I wasn't nineteen anymore. I wasn't the kid who blamed his anger on everyone but himself anymore, and it hurt to think Yuna couldn't see that side of me.

"My dude, you have been much too quiet tonight," Gippal said to me at one point, interrupting my concave reverie to throw an arm over my shoulder. He always leaned harder into the gesture when drunk.

"Was this in bad taste?" he asked, breathe full of whisky. "Have I been a total douche and not realized it?"

"No, Gippal," I said. "I'm having fun."

"I'm not like, totaling enabling right now—right?"

"No," I repeated, distancing myself from his pending breakdown. I knew that most everyone around me has been walking on some form of metaphorical eggshells. The ink blot of substance abuse was hard to erase and here I was surrounded by unlimited liquor. But to no one's surprise but my own, I really was okay. I'd hardly paid attention to the alcohol. I'd hardly cared to inebriate myself under the guise of celebration. I was too distracted by Yuna. Yuna. In my home. Yuna, so beautiful and serious, alone with my memorabilia, reading through plaques and clippings with the same studious look I'd seen her don for ancient scripture. A sight I never thought I'd live to see again. A sight I didn't realize, her absence now evident, had left me so whole.

With no more energy for anger, I replayed our exchange in a much more hopeless light. Yuna had felt rejected. I had hurt her all over again, just like I had years ago outside of her childhood home. She didn't want to feel like a consequence and I shouldn't have let her. I should have thrown everyone out. I should have told them I was going to celebrate with Yuna and Yuna alone—no funny business, just me and her and a cold balcony to pour ourselves into. (Although, "funny business" would have been welcome, too. I couldn't deny how rampant my imagination had run since I found her ankle in my hand. How the sight of her legs, her thigh, all flesh and blood below a disheveled hemline had left me agitated all week.) I ran around in circles thinking maybe it were true, maybe a small percentage of Yuna wanted the very thing I was desperate to give her: myself.

I spent the rest of the party trapped in my own head. I let the it continue without much participation. I was there, physically, a moveable shell with the reflexes of a trained parrot. ("Happy birthday" "Thank you" "Shots?" "No thank you") But inside I was the equivalent of something desolate and ruined. Somehow three hours had passed and my detachment made that much more evident as somebody joked I was the saddest happy person they had ever met. I think I laughed, and I think they believed it, and finally, at two in the morning, the last of the crowd had left for an after party I had no strength to stomach. I was left standing in my kitchen more sober than ever and alone in the presence of a very determined Linnea.

When she slides off the barstool, I watch the thin strap of her camisole fall along with her. Her eyes don't leave mine until she rounds the kitchen island, breaking the contact to stand behind me.

"Did you have fun?" she asks, slipping a cold hand below my shirt.

"Yeah," I say automatically, registering the need to agree rather than the question itself.

"Any favorite gifts?" she asks again, hands grazing my lower abdomen.

I think of the chocolate chocobo eggs sitting in my pocket. "Mm," I say, trying my best to encourage her advances.

"That better be a no," she warns, voice lowered to a whisper, "because there's one more left to unwrap."

Linnea presses her mouth to the back of my neck, her breath steady and hot down the length of my shirt. I close my eyes and hope for the best. I hope for the power of physical release, of the belief in it leading down the same road to recovery; the temporary freedom I desperately crave. Her grip finds its way beneath my belt in an effort to separate mind from body. I hope I don't think of Yuna and her weight in my atmosphere, how the minute she steps out of frame I feel lighter in all the wrong ways. I hope I don't wonder why she left or why she didn't say goodbye, how I thought I did everything I was supposed to—didn't I? The apology for trying to kiss her, for being unsupportive of her engagement and trying to reignite the one drunken night on her porch we've never since confronted. I needed to drop the façade and admit my faults openly. I had damaged her trust in me, and I was desperate to regain it.

But as much as I hope I can't help ask myself the same question over and over again: why did she leave? The question feels colder, more familiar. How many times did I ask myself that same question when she first moved to Bevelle? For a moment I'm blinded by the image of present-day Yuna boarding an airplane, but then Linnea's fingers, hindered by too much alcohol, fumble with the clasp of my buckle and I'm no longer floating between time.

Linnea retreats herself from below my shirt. I feel the cold of her wake and the sound of disappointment taking shape as crossed arms. When I turn around, I am met with the expression of a woman who knows she's being ignored.

"Something on your mind?" she asks.

"No," I reply. "I'm sorry."

"And distracted."

"I'm tired."

"Is it Yuna?" Linnea asks candidly, her face devoid of everything but impartial curiosity. "Are you still upset she left?"

Great, I think to myself. She's beauty and brains, and severely intuitive, but somehow a 'no' still seems to leave my mouth. Of course, Linnea doesn't believe me, and of course I'm not surprised. I wouldn't believe me either. She doesn't push me though. She just leans against the counter and waits, allowing me the time to accept the pointlessness of my bluff.

"I guess I am," I confess.

I watch the cogs turn in Linnea's head. She is a journalist paid to couple words with intention, and when done successfully, for specific outcomes. "She's pretty important to you, huh?" she asks diplomatically.

"You really want to talk about this?" I ask, weary of her curiosity.

Linnea drops a curt "pfft" and walks back to other side of the island, apparently offended by my question. "I'm not your girlfriend, Tidus," she says. "And anyway, I'd like to know if you're in love with someone else before I get too invested. That'd be kind of good to know, right?"

"I don't know, would it?" I counter.

Though I'm not trying to be funny, I'm somehow disappointed by Linnea's deadpan expression. One minute she's trying to undo my pants and the next she's all business.

"I'm just a little sensitive," I say, walking over to where she glares. It works, because it's not an outward lie. Sensitivity is relatable, or at the very least a convincing example of self-awareness. I brush off the hair sitting on her collarbone and ask, "Now what was this about a gift?"

She smirks and gives in, because at the end of the day we agreed to these roles. We agreed we didn't need more from each other, that neither of us was in a place to piece together the broken parts of ourselves we were still searching to find. She was on the job and I was just a name with an obligation. A benefit, I was told, hosted by none other than the Zanarkand Abes. So we drank and we flirted, because she was funny and attractive and full of knowledge on blitzball. I wasn't just this year's most eligible and somebody's son, but a person with a passion for something they understood. Couple that with a dress filled out in all the right places and I had found the perfect distraction.

When I find my grip around Linnea's neck, she resumes her task at undoing my belt. Eventually, we make our way upstairs and stumble onto my bed breathless and viscous, and several layers lighter. The event is mindless and carnal. Linnea is done and then she isn't, and then she's done again, and I lose myself entirely. Mind gone, body gone, nothing but a collection of pulses and fluid. Linnea falls asleep almost immediately, something I've noticed she executes rather consistently every time, and I lay there both desensitized and buzzing from end to end like a snapped wire, not entirely relieved anymore but almost restarted against my will. I listen to Linnea's breath. It's steady, light, just barely amped by the hum of congestion. My curtains are open and the city stares blankly. It doesn't tell me anything, just echoes the same emptiness I offer it myself. We play a game of toss, passing a ball of numbness back and forth until I can no longer take it and find myself upright. I slip out of bed and into my clothes, and make my way back downstairs into the living room.

I want to call Yuna, but aside from having no idea what to say to her, a glance at my phone tells me I'd be insane to call anyone at this hour. So instead I lay on my couch feeling no differently than I did upstairs. The events of my birthday flip through my mind like a carousel projector, rotating each event frame-by-frame. It clicks and I wake up to too many texts. Another click and Gippal invites himself over for breakfast. Click. The party has begun. Click. Yuna is here. Click. Yuna is next to me. Click. Yuna is crying. Click. Yuna. Click. Yuna. Click. Yuna. Yuna. Yuna.

Late December

When the new year rolls in I decide to spend it unremarkably. Linnea wants to go to some party hosted by a magazine—or maybe by the editor of a magazine? she says it so many times I can't ask her to tell me again—but all I want is privacy and quiet. I tell her I think I'll spend it at a friend's instead. She understands. She says I'm right, it might be "too couple-y" after all and I reply with soft agreement. At least one thing in my life is aligned: Linnea's and my mutual indifference. So when Wakka lets it slip that Yuna might be at his place for the night, I jump the gun and invite myself over. A neighbor of their's, another couple, is also invited. I think out of sympathy to my solo RSVP Lulu invites Gippal, who, feeling jilted by Rikku's trip to Bikanel, accepts it more manically than I do.

Like always, Yuna's presence in the room is the only thing I notice. It doesn't exactly surprise me when just around the corner comes quiet, earnest Baralai. I'm more surprised at the general concept of it all. It feels like a bad joke pushed too far. Yuna and Baralai? Still? You could call it jealousy, but on a more honest day I call it sad envy. I'm not jealous of Baralai. I'm envious of his position and the privilege he has of being Yuna's. Maybe arranged is not the right word, but Lord Braska and Lady Annia couldn't have picked a better match themselves if they tried. Not that it's a good match. It's the worst match. I'm a better match, but unfortunately, on paper, it makes a lot of sense. New Yevon and Old Yevon quite literally married. It's annoyingly "for the people" and I sometimes think that's all anyone sees.

Yuna hardly meets my eye when they enter. I don't think she's prepared to see me tonight. Well good, I think to myself, maybe she's feeling sorry for bailing on my birthday. I'm going to say what I need by not saying anything at all. Let her be the one to internalize tonight.

"Tidus," Baralai says. I stand up from the couch to meet his hand. "It's good to see you."

I want to steal your fiancé and have her all to myself comes out as: "yeah, you too."

Gippal and I stay seated in the living room. A New Year countdown litters the TV screen. The one neighbor, Orien, sits next to Gippal on the opposite side of the sectional. Orien, banker, boring, makes the mistake of bringing up my old man within five minutes of meeting. He tells me there was no one like him. He tells me blitzball wasn't blitzball before he stepped onto the scene, fresh out of high school, high-energy and arrogant. Sometimes people think the fandom is flattering. If they love Jecht so much I must too. I've learned not to be so cynical about it. The Abes' publicity team hammered that one into my head well enough. I guess it's not a "good look" to call the man on everyone's t-shirts verbally abusive. So I just nod, because it's partially true. My father revolutionized the sport.

Without much response from me, Orien targets Gippal next. Gippal is a better sport. He's not interested in the neighbor's ten years in banking, but the neighbor is interested in Machine Faction. I hear the word propagate about a dozen times.

Yuna and Baralai are with Lulu and Wakka by the breakfast table. I don't listen to their conversation, I just observe from afar. I watch Baralai's gaze linger on Yuna as she finishes a sentence. He reaches for her left hand, lightly cupping her fingers in his own. Askew on her ring finger, the diamond Yuna wears is thumbed by her fiancé's mindlessness. It's intimate. It's sweet. And it fucking breaks my heart. He loves her. Why wouldn't she want to be with him? There's no word to capture my frustration. I call myself an idiot about a thousand times, because that's exactly what I am. I could have had her, maybe. I could have smashed the bottle of suppressed emotion and fallen in love with her so much sooner. What a waste, I think to myself. I had her undivided attention for years and I threw it all away because I was an idiot consumed by my own fame. I wanted multiple girls, not the girl. I wanted excess, shallowness, meaningless everything. Yuna was too serious, too mature, too good for me, and realized it long before I did. And when she came back, different, evolved, I melted into soft putty.

The banker's wife, Nora, comes back from some other part of the house. She takes a seat next to me and whispers an apology. "He gets easily excited," she says, looking at her husband.

"That's okay," I say.

"So you work for the Abes, right?" she asks, tucking one leg beneath the other, full glass of wine carefully balanced in one hand. I wonder where I can pour my own.

"I'm a player," I say.

Nora snaps a finger. "Now it makes sense. My husband was so excited when Wakka invited us over. He is the biggest Abes fan. It runs in the whole family. If they had their own crest it would be the Abes logo."

I let out a nervous chuckle. This is my least favorite conversation to have with a stranger. From the corner of my eye, I catch Yuna standing up from the table. The door bell rings and Lulu volunteers to open it, tugging Yuna along with her. This disperses Wakka and Baralai across the room—Baralai to the kitchen, Wakka toward us. He takes a seat on the centered ottoman, hands over a beer, and gestures for a clink.

"You two introduce yourself properly?" Wakka asks. I nod furiously behind a sip; Nora just laughs. "I've got good feelings about next season, ya? I'm already buzzing with plays in mind."

Neighbor asks a question. She doesn't understand Wakka's enthusiasm for the off season of blitzball.

"Pre-season," he corrects. "We heading to Luca for a month. Gotta train hard to play hard, ya?" he asks in my direction.

"Yeah," I say vaguely, eyes wandering through the room.

"It's about the full physical experience," Wakka continues. "These guys already had their minds rested, you know. Now it's time to re-engage their strength, their synchronicity as a team."

"I don't think that's the word you're looking for," I say behind a sip. I don't notice Baralai anymore in the room. When I meet Wakka and Nora's silent gazes I continue, half-distracted. "Synchronicity. It doesn't really imply a relationship between two things. It's not causality, it's coincidence."

"My mistake, Mr. School," Wakka says before a booming laugh.

Graav makes a surprise appearance from the entry floor. Wakka and Gippal are elated; I take this as my cue to leave.

"Excuse me," I say, getting up from the couch, leaving the beer behind me. I greet my fellow teammate as I pass the formal dining room and climb the staircase to the floor above. I'm reminded of the last time I walked up these steps. It was with the same amount of haste, the same amount of urge to find Yuna. The phrase 'love sick puppy' starts to resonate.

I don't really have a plan of attack. I hardly let myself think through the decision, but once up I decide there's no going back. Being at a party with a million strangers and too much to drink started out as a turn off, but here now, lost between two different options (talk to Yuna, don't talk to Yuna), I'm not exactly sure I agree anymore. At least Linnea is a potent distraction for my blackhole of thoughts. At least I wouldn't have had to stare at Yuna and her to be for a good chunk of the night—something I stupidly didn't foresee when I invited myself over. I had no agenda in mind for tonight but to simply be in the same room as Yuna. So when she left, I guess my body reacted out of loyalty to my mind.

I make it to the foyer and stop at the stair's landing, my movement halted by the sound of Yuna and Lulu talking. They're somewhere upstairs, I think maybe Vidina's room. I walk slowly, quietly, toward the bottom of the next run of steps. I have a view of the hallway from there, but can't see them or the bedrooms beyond. I lean forward and embrace my decision to eavesdrop.

I hear Yuna's voice first.

"Rikku is the one who mentioned it."

When I don't hear Lulu's response I imagine the same thought running through her mind: why would you listen to Rikku?

"Did you ever think about it?" Yuna asks. Her voice is so soft I lean further on the staircase.

"Of what? Eloping? Not really," Lulu replies.

Eloping? I repeat, horrified. No, no, no, no. She can't elope. It's too soon, it's too fast! I haven't had a chance!

"But Wakka and I had a small wedding," Lulu continues. "Maybe it's in the same vein."

Yuna's voice drops so low I can't make out her reply. Vidina must be fussing, because all that fills the air is the sound of Lulu's coos—that and the word 'elope'.

"I don't think it's what I want," Yuna finally says with greater resolution. "I just wish it wasn't such a spectacle all the time. I wish I could do it my way."

"And what way would that be?" Lulu asks.

There's a noticeable pause. I hear the floorboards creak and the sound of shuffled footsteps. Afraid they'll catch me standing at the edge of the stairs, I back away slightly, keeping myself buoyant to any change in direction.

"Slow," Yuna says. "Maybe I'd wait a few years."

The words leave me stunned. I almost fall backward at the sudden shift in tone. It feels even more critical now that I be up there and talk to her myself. Get out of there Lulu! She's confused! She's hesitating! She's not trying to run off into the night and come back a married woman! The revelation feels like an opportunity. For what? I don't know, but hope seeps into my bloodstream nonetheless.

"Which one is it?" Lulu questions. "Elope or postpone?"

Post? Pone? I start feeling dizzy, borderline giddy. Where is this coming from? Why is Lulu asking that so casually, like it's a dinner reservation they're unsure to keep? Do you want to go out to tonight, Yuna, or should we postpone?

Suddenly, the door opens behind me and in walks Baralai, the very last person I hoped to see. Ever. He must have been outside for a cigarette, judging from the smell of smoke circling his presence. We just stand there, both of us caught off guard by each other's sight. And then I remember his fiancé wanting to postpone their wedding while he was just outside the door, and I smile quite broadly.

Baralai doesn't like my expression, that much is obvious, but before he can say anything I hear the sound of footsteps descending behind me. Lulu and Yuna stop halfway down the staircase as I turn to meet their stunned expressions. I guess it's bad either way—me overhearing their conversation or Baralai. But Lulu doesn't falter. She saves face and continues down the staircase, slipping between Baralai and I with all the coolness in the world.

"And what brings us all to the foyer?" she asks us both.

"I was outside," Baralai answers first. Yuna reaches the bottom of the steps and he snakes an arm around her waist.

All three of them look at me. "The…bathroom was occupied," I say.

"Second door on the left," Lulu tells me. "And don't wake up Vidina."

"Right," I reply and steal a glance toward Yuna.

Slowly, I ascend the second flight of steps as the three of them head to the basement. I walk into the nearest bathroom and shut the door behind me. Mindlessly, I take a seat on the toilet and hang my head into my palms. I am entranced by my eavesdropping, entranced by the words exchanged between Lulu and Yuna. I start to summarize their lethal collection of sentences, beginning with the most positive fact: Yuna doesn't want to elope. From there, my summary turns more subjective. She doesn't want to get married, at least not in the way I thought she did, and to my surprise, Lulu was…not surprised. Why? Has Yuna mentioned this before, just meters away from the very man she's promised to marry? Does Rikku know? Could I ask her? Is that why she left? The questions spiral out of control, toppling over one another before I can complete a single thought. I become so consumed I don't realize I'm pacing the small bathroom until I kick up a bath mat and find myself falling backwards, into the door, brass knob puncturing my hip. I let out a choked cry and slump to the floor, truly realizing the insanity of my behavior.

Head back between my palms, I tell myself there is only one thing I can do: unpack, slowly. I wasn't supposed to hear Yuna's indecision, but I heard it nonetheless and there has to be some meaning to that. I could have done everything differently tonight. I could have chosen to be somewhere else surrounded by completely different people, all my Yuna Thoughts drowning in volumes of champagne, but I didn't—I chose to be here instead. My more positive half tells me it was for a reason. I was meant to hear Yuna's words. She'd never invite me into her thoughts like that. I had to overhear them to know what I was truly dealing with. It was…synchronicity. The thought has me laughing dryly.

Not even two weeks ago I was resolved to make amends with Yuna in what I thought was an exemplary display of selflessness. Give up. Let her be with who she wants, who she's already chosen. But here now, lower back throbbing in pain and mind as clear as mud, I'm no longer sure what I want. I've done a pretty shitty job at expressing myself since Yuna's return. I've ricocheted between all the highs and lows, between drunken outbursts and quiet resolution, none of which have provided any sort of clarity—not to me, not to her. It was sort of stupid, I think to myself, to expect her to understand me when I barely understood myself. She didn't return to Zanarkand to be played with again. She returned to Zanarkand to find answers. Whether she's found them, I don't know. I partly wonder if my inconsistency has been an answer in itself. I sure as hell hope not.

With a groan, I pick myself up from the floor and lean against the vanity. I stare at my reflection, briefly noting to schedule a haircut as soon as possible. And then, begrudgingly, I open the door to the bathroom and head for the living room, a battle in my head escalating with each step.

One part of me is afraid to say anything, knowing the timing is less than ideal. You don't attempt a coup against someone else's relationship without a decent plan of action, and right now I barely have a coherent thought. But another part of me is eager to use the freshness of Yuna's admission, and gut everything inside of me seppuku style. I'm due for Luca in two days. What if it's too late by the time I get back? What if this moment, with the doubt still swollen in her mind, is the exact right time?

Lulu eyes me carefully when I make it to the bottom floor. I'm not surprised by her suspicions, but I don't expect a confrontation, knowing she's not impulsive enough to ride on speculation. Yuna stands by Baralai, comfortably buffered by the rest of the party. It's only when the clock strikes midnight does her gaze find mine. She smiles, she nods, and my self-control returns the timid gesture.

January

The first days of training begin like any other. Generic conditioning, endurance sessions, agility sessions—all the things meant to restart our lagging muscle memory. It's a light-hearted type of challenge, the kind I sort of breeze through in a relative sense. The the type of physical training that strips your sleep of any ability to dream, and I welcome it with open arms. I need it. I crave it. My peace of mind demands it.

I live the first week with no cellphone, no outside contact, no mention of weddings and eloping to clutter my brain and axe my heart in half. I don't forget, but I don't always remind myself either. I run and I jump and I react in all the right ways with a half empty mind, thoughts of Yuna and her smile and her smell buried deep enough in my memories to ignore. It's early mornings and cold showers and exhaustion so severe you swear you black out. The pain is gratifying, tangible. A reminder to myself that I am alive and capable of feeling something other than disappointment.

But then the week passes and the training changes. Less repetition, more room for creativity. Defensive techniques, anticipation, leadership.

And I slip. I slip badly, because, as it turns out, decision-making contracts the space in your mind for other thoughts to fit. Thoughts about her, of course.

Sometimes they're unexpected, chopped up and thrown back at random times of the day, out of order, blurry, all because someone's necklace has a blue bead the same color as the ones in her hair. And then I think of the smell of it, the faint waft of coconut I drink between short hugs, the way her brown locks sit above the curves of her collarbone, how the slope between bone and pulse invites my mouth so temptingly. And then the thoughts are prolonged. Agonizing. An entire breakfast and car ride with no pause to the reel.

So I fumble and I throw bad passes and no one hides the surprise from their face. They are concerned, maybe shocked. I've never performed this badly. Jecht's never performed this badly. And I offer no reason or response to the worried pressure, because the only words that come to mind are: sorry, unrequited love blows.

The distraction is so severe I tear a ligament in my shoulder by week two. For three days I sit in the box, watching, judging, doing absolutely nothing because the doctor says so. By day four, I'm so bored and annoyed I make sure everyone knows by yelling across the sphere pool at every bad play, struggling hard not to throw my bad arm into the air. My obscenities are not appreciated and Wakka yells at me to shut my "stupid fucking mouth" through a megaphone.

I sigh and slump into the stadium seat.

I replay the moment over and over again. It was an exercise in passing. I had seen the ball and our only open player, but not the body one step ahead to defend the throw. He had a heel to my shoulder before I knew it, the force of my momentum practically leaping me into the kick. It was a poorly aimed move and I was a poorly distracted player. Immediately, I knew the injury was bad enough to pull me from practice. A short exam by the standing medic confirmed the instinct, sentencing me to benched jail.

I sit, days later, sore from the injury, sore from the plastic chair beneath me, out of commission until I can successfully put on a t-shirt without nearly fainting. I'm braced for the sake of keeping my arm still, otherwise, there's no remedy to my frustrations but patience. And of course, with too much mental downtime to fertilize the thought, she returns, because not even being in the sphere pool itself is enough to keep her out of my head.

Wet eyes. Pink nose hidden behind a sleeve.

She cried the first time I was injured. I was a junior in high school, already lined up to play for the Zanarkand Abes since the age of sixteen. It was an informal offer, more "if…then" statement than binding contract, but I was on track to be drafted with no stop to get off, energy only fueled by the taste of my first injury. I collided with an opposing player, heads making contact before any other part of our body. I didn't lose consciousness immediately; it had taken another seven minutes for me to succumb to the concussion. When I woke up two hours later, horizontal and tied down by tubes, I was angry at the interruption, arguing with the nurse that I needed to be returned to the field immediately.

"Game's over, honey," she said, unbothered. "I'll let the doctor know you're awake."

When I was finally discharged, I sulked into the hospital lobby unsure who to find waiting for me. All I was told was that my parents were "unreachable."

I heard my name from across the room before I saw her. When I turned around she was running across the waiting room with open arms. Her body pummeled into my own, nearly knocking me over a row of wooden chairs. "I was so worried!" she sobbed into my shoulder.

"I'm fine," I reassured, smile creeping on my face.

She took a step back, grip still on my arms. Her expression was somewhat angry, but hardly menacing under the glisten of tears. Still dressed in our school uniform, Yuna was the opposite of what I braced myself for. She was innocent, loving, albeit somewhat erratically.

"You dropped out of nowhere!" she yelled and shoved at me. "How is that fine? All I wanted to do was dive into that stupid water and cast a cure spell, but it doesn't work on lost consciousness!"

"Can you even do that yet?"

"No!" she yelled and hit me again.

I was highly amused by it, Yuna's dramatic concern. Her insane moments of protectiveness were cute, heart-warming. I couldn't stop smiling at her.

"It's just a small concussion," I said one more time, swatting another incoming strike. "Stop hitting me!"

"I'm sorry!" she snapped, stepping further back to wipe at her face. "You just scared me."

"I'm okay—look!" I said, wildly waving my arms to prove the point.

"Is that supposed to make me feel better?" she asked behind a cringe.

I laughed deeply, so happy she was the one I found. Had it been anyone else I would have held onto the sulk and the brood, and used every excuse in the book to be angry at the world. It would have been insults and taunts had it been my father; detachment and silence had it been my mother. But it was Yuna, caring, heartfelt Yuna who had been there. The fire was out, extinguished in seconds.

When we made it outside the hospital, her arm wrapped around my own in fear I would pass out again, a nameless black car was waiting for us. Inside, I asked about the game, if she knew who won or how it went. Yuna just shook her head, telling me she left as soon as I was carried off.

"You didn't have to do that," I said quietly, gnawing at the end of my damp uniform. Yuna threw a sharp look my way. Of course I wanted her there, I was so grateful for it in fact, but knowing how far she went to be there somehow bothered me. "I just mean I'm fine, really. I could have gotten myself home."

She sighed against the car. "Someone has to worry about you," she whispered.

No, you don't, I thought to myself, but didn't voice it out loud. I didn't want her to mention my own parents' lack of concern. I knew she often felt obligated to fill their absence and stupidly, selfishly, I sometimes resented her for it. If there was anything I hated more than an interrupted game it was pity. By that time in my life I was starting realize how often the emotion was thrown to me by strangers. Yuna wasn't a stranger, she was the closest thing I had to family, and I hated it more from her. I hated being so sorry and helpless in her eyes, a broken thing she felt obliged to nurture.

"Ti," I hear Wakka call.

I look up. He stands next to me, practice evidently over by the half-empty sphere pool.

"Let's go," he says again, turning for the stairs behind.

Wakka doesn't bother with another word until we make it outside the stadium. Luca's afternoon light blinds me as soon as the doors open. Unlike in Zanarkand, winter hasn't destroyed this city's daylight. It's warm but the air crisp, and the sun has a few more hours left before it thinks about setting.

"I'm buying lunch," Wakka says, pulling out the keys to his rental. It beeps, he jumps in, and in a rather hesitant manner, I join.

"You gotta stop yelling at your own teammates like that, ya?" he says neutrally as we settle into the car.

"Sorry," I mutter, buckling my seatbelt. "I just feel helpless out there."

"Ya well, that's what happens when you play stupid," he says, tapping at my temple from the driver's seat.

"It was an accident," I counter.

"It was stupid," he repeats.

We drive wordlessly for a minute. I rest my head against the passenger window, careful not to apply too much pressure to my shoulder. Two more days, I repeat to myself. I have an appointment in two more days to assess my recovery and then, hopefully, I'll be able to play again.

"Besaidian?" Wakka booms, peering into a restaurant at the corner of an intersection. "Fish sounds good right about now, ya?" he asks, not really waiting for my reply, and parks.

The restaurant sits us immediately. Wakka keeps up the silent act, flipping through the menu over and over again. It starts to sink in that his invitation has a purpose beyond satiating our hunger. I throw skeptical glances his way between my own menu. Wakka doesn't do covert. He's big, loud, a presence you feel without having to see him. He's cumbersome with words and allergic to the more sensitive things in life. Yet I feel it, quite obviously, the ulterior motive he hides in his silence. Wakka wants to talk and has no idea where to begin. I decide to make it easier for him.

"So what, you wanted to talk?" I ask bluntly.

Surprise flashes across his face, but he doesn't speak up. "What do you think," he begins, "yellowtail or red snapper? Maybe some sticky rice, ya?"

I just nod and roll my eyes.

The waiter comes for our order. Wakka settles on the yellowtail, rice, a side of beef broth, and papaya juice for two (he says, throwing up an index and middle finger to drive the point). I throw my elbow on the table and lean my cheek into my hand.

"So," he cracks a knuckle, "you doing okay?"

I just stare at him, head glued to my palm.

"I mean, you know, other than the whole broken shoulder thing."

"It's not broken," I say. "In fact, it pretty much feels healed, so I'd really like to get back to practice now."

"I don't think so," he replies.

My head pops up. "And why not?"

"Because I don't trust you."

"You don't trust me?" I ask, staggered.

"I don't trust you not to make the same mistake."

Two glasses of bright orange juice are dropped off. I rip the paper from a straw angrily, plunge it into the drink and take a generous sip, too heated to give a reply.

"Look, brotha', I know something's up." Wakka leans into the table, slowly prepping his own glass. "You been acting strange for months, but I've just been letting it be, ya? I know how much you hate being bugged, but now you in a sling and I've got reason to be concerned."

"No, you don't," I say.

"Yeah, I do," he counters, crossing his arms over one another. "I've never seen you play so sloppy in my life, Ti. And I've been coaching you for years now."

"Okay, so I suck now. What do you want me to say, Wakka?" I ask, exasperated.

"Whatever's on your mind," he replies.

"I'm fine, I promise," I begin, finally understanding what he wants from me. "I'm healthy, I'm clean. You can throw any drug test on me right now and I'd pass them all, I swear. I'm never going back to that place again. This—this," I wave a hand in front of me, "shitty performance has nothing to do with that. I don't know what else to tell you."

He cocks an eyebrow. "Why'd you want to come over for the new year, huh?"

"What?" I counter immediately, confused.

"New. Year. Why'd you come over? You always out partying instead."

"I didn't want to party," I reply.

"Yeah, but that was only after I brought up Yuna."

"That's not true," I quip.

"Yeah it is. I said her name once and you were all ears."

I narrow my eyes. "What are you getting at?"

"You only wanted to be there because of her, ya?" I stay silent. "But then you show up, and she shows up, and you don't even acknowledge each other! I mean, it was kind of weird, brotha'. You were looking at each other constantly, but didn't say a single word. What's a matter with you two?"

"Nothing," I say softly, not meeting his eye.

He snorts in response. "You sure about that? Looks to me like you fighting again."

I shake my head. "We're not fighting."

"Then what's going on with you two? Honestly."

I sit there silently eyeing Wakka, contemplating my options. I figure it didn't exactly come across as normal, Yuna and I doing everything in the world to avoid each other. Our little spats were always sort of prescriptive and easy to identify. But for Wakka to attribute that night to my less than stellar performance now is not something I'm prepared for. I thought it was my past. I thought it was the usual misdirected concern for repeated mistakes that brought me to lunch. I didn't think it could be concern for something I've never voiced yet is so evidently true. I wonder if Wakka is even aware how on the nose he is. Would he really want to hear how stupidly in love I am with Yuna? Yuna, practically his adoptive little sister, the girl he spent many summers babysitting and protecting while she vacationed with her family in Besaid. When recruited by the Abes to step up as coach, it was Yuna who convinced him to make the move. For all she cared they were blood relatives.

"I don't know," I say, sounding mellower than I mean to. "I don't know what's going on with us."

Wakka's eyes widen. "Eh? What'd you mean by that? Are you and Yuna…uh…you know…" his sentence dissipates into nothing.

"There's no me and Yuna."

"Yeah? So what are you trying to say?"

"I don't know," I repeat, frustrated. "That's the problem. I have no idea how…to say it."

"Say what?" Wakka asks, almost as frustrated as I am.

"It wasn't what I expected," I say, shaking my head absently. "I didn't even realize until it was too late."

The food arrives at the end of my sentence. Wakka's expression is pensive even as each dish is served before him. He cuts a filet for me, serving my plate from across the table, and then repeats for himself. His response remains stunted by a mouth full of food. It's a bit of an excuse. Food or no food, Wakka doesn't adapt well to figurative bombs. A petty fight is easy. A vague response from me with even vaguer connotations is not. But he forced it out of me and now he has to deal with it.

"Wakka…" I say slowly. "I love her."

Face behind a bowl of broth, I hear him choke at my words. He sets the soup down, wiping at his face, expression alive in disbelief.

"You…what?"

"I love her," I say and chew on some rice. It already feels addictive—saying it out loud.

"Love her how?" he asks, clearly skeptical.

"Uh," I pause, "furiously?"

Wakka sets down a fork and clears his throat. "Look, Ti, it's easy to confuse things for love, ya? Especially for a person you've known your whole life. But it's not easy, you know. When you really feel it, it changes you. When I met Lu it was like nothing I'd ever known before, you know?"

"I know," I agree, nodding my head at his words. "I thought I was just confused, too. I mean, I was confused. I've never been jealous before. Yuna's never been with anyone for me to be jealous of. So when I first felt it, trust me Wakka, I didn't want it. It didn't…feel good."

It felt awful and painful. The first night I saw of her with Baralai everything inside of me plummeted. It was her engagement party and still, I was shocked by the idea of Yuna with someone else. Up until that point I was content to think I'd been the only important one in her life. Of course she had her parents, of course she had Rikku and other family, but they weren't me. No one was me. I was the only Tidus in her life. I was the only guy she confided in and trusted. I was the only guy she ever kissed.

"I tried really hard to suppress it," I continue. "I thought I just wasn't used to being around her again and that once I did, everything would fall into place. We'd be friends again. She'd get married and I'd be happy for her. But things only got worse. I only felt more every time I saw her." I shake my head at the memory of finally realizing it. She was drunk-passed out and more beautiful than I ever thought possible. I wanted to touch her so badly. I wanted to lie down beside her and wrap myself in her warmth. When I returned home that night the hurt was so physical, so intense I ached all over. I ached for her.

"I've never felt this way before," I whisper. "It has changed me."

"You really sure about that? I know Yuna's special to you but—"

"She's everything to me, Wakka. I know why you don't believe me—I didn't believe myself—but there's no point pretending anymore. I hardly remember what it was like before. A flip just switched, and that was it."

Wakka pops a fork into his mouth, contemplating my confession. "So now what?"

"Now what?" I repeat incredulously. "Now nothing."

"Nothing—really?" He crosses his arms again. "You telling me you fall in love with a girl you used to eat dirt with, and you're not going to do anything about it?"

"I don't think we ever ate dirt, Wakka."

"Tch!" he exclaims with a fake swat to my response. "You know what I mean."

"No, I don't," I say, burying my head into my hands. "This isn't exactly a shared experience."

A few weeks ago I was sure I could do it—spill everything I had onto the floor and never look back. But I was high on the moment of overhearing Yuna's indecision. After the high faded and reality set in, I lost my conviction entirely. There was too much to risk, too much to gamble for a few minutes of honesty. Hurting myself over a stupid play hardly helped my confidence.

"You talk to her about it?" Wakka asks.

"Of course not." I look up from my palms. "I don't need to talk to her about it."

"Then how do you know?"

"If I tell her," I say carefully, meeting Wakka's eyes, "and she rejects me, our friendship will never survive."

Wakka scratches at his chin. "That may be true, but the way I see it, it won't survive either way, you know. Think about it," he continues. "You spent hours right next to each other and didn't say a word. When you return what are you going to do? Pretend nothing happened until it does again, or ignore each other even longer? She's going to marry him, you know, no matter what. There's no chance she won't unless you say something. She'll never know, brotha'."

I slump into my seat, appetite destroyed. Wakka's response is the last thing I expect. Anger, even disgust would have been preferred. It would have been easier to digest. But this—encouragement? hope?—this I can't even swallow.

"You think I have a chance?" I will myself to ask.

"I love Yuna like she were my own sister, ya? She's the most caring person in the world. But sometimes, especially if she thinks it's for a noble cause, her kindness can do her more harm than good. I'm not saying Baralai's a bad guy, you know, and maybe Yuna really does love him, but if any other man with a decent heart and a role in New Yevon proposed to her would she accept? Maybe, I can't say for sure, but I do know what you mean to her, Ti. Maybe it's not so crazy to think she's going through the same thing, ya? You piss her off a lot, you know. I think you kind of annoy her when you're not worrying her so much. But for each of those extremes is a million more on the opposite end of the spectrum. You make her laugh. She's never not smiling around you, even when she's mad. When you two weren't talking, anytime I brought you up her whole attitude would change, you know. Like she'd spark up, talk a little faster. Lu and I may be settled now, you know. We may look content and figured out, but our marriage is far from lukewarm." He chuckles at that one. "I mean, if you don't have passion what's the point? And I think, win or lose, you might as well try. And if you're going to try, you might as well win."

I sit there silently, dumbfounded. "That was really…articulate."

Wakka's expression darkens. "So what?"

"So I'm surprised. I don't know."

He shakes his head and stuffs a piece of rice-fish into his mouth. "I don't know why you're so content on being unhappy," he grumbles through the food.

"I'm not content on being unhappy," I retort.

"Seems like it."

"I just…need to think," I say, gathering another bite onto my own fork.

It makes sense, Wakka's point. If I haven't already lost Yuna I sure as hell am on track to. The back and forth between us, the holding back and leaking just a little bit only to bottle it back up—it's not healthy. It's insane. And it's led me to literally injure myself. Of course I can't sustain it much longer.

"What if I fuck it up?" I ask out loud. Normally I don't allow myself to dig so far into my buried fears. The fear of saying anything at all and likely being rejected is enough to kill the action. But sometimes the thought prevails and I ask myself, even if she wanted me too, could I do it? Could I be the man Yuna needs? Or would my family history of self-degradation implode on us both?

"Don't fuck it up," Wakka states matter-of-factly.

"I think that's easier said than done."

"You have no other choice," he says, laughing. "I'd grind you to a pulp."

I chuckle. Slightly. To that, Wakka doesn't reply. We continue to eat in silence, each of us occupied by our own thoughts. I'm torn between confusion, shock, and a slight need to laugh at my coach's sudden poetry. I know it's not funny and I know once it settles I'll feel eternally grateful for his courage, but I can't help smirk at my busted clairvoyance. Who would have thought it'd be Wakka to shed light?

The topic isn't brought up again. Wakka reverts the subject to blitzball and today's practice. I welcome the change in conversation. It's an easier one to have while my mind decompresses.

He tells me things are going well for us. My teammates haven't been affected by my absence and we're on track to begin the season come March. I thank Wakka for lunch, hoping he catches my underlying gratitude. When we make it to the hotel, just before parting ways down the hall, he plants a hand on my back and offers a solemn "good luck." I think I'll remember this day for the rest of my life.

Kiryl isn't around when I enter our shared room. Door closed, I dart for my suitcase and shuffle through its contents. I find my phone at the very bottom, blissfully ignored for a week and a half. The screen changes from black to white and eventually lights up in a million notifications. I tune them all out and search for her name. Without much time to think, I tap my finger against her number.

On the third ring, she answers.

"Tidus?"

Her voice slips into my eardrum. It feels so good.

"Hi," I say.

"Is…everything okay?"

For some reason the question makes me laugh. The sound of her voice. That's all it takes to feel the euphoria. It's only been two weeks since hearing it, but, too deep in our mutual stubbornness, it's been even longer since directed at me. I haven't spoken to her since my birthday, and I've missed her more than I thought possible.

"Yeah," I answer honestly. "I just wanted to ask you something. Can…can I ask you something?"

"You can ask me something."

I take seat on my bed. "I was hoping we could talk. You know, when I get back to Zanarkand."

"That wasn't really a question, Tidus."

"You're right." I laugh. Hope, pure hope. "I guess I wanted to ask if we could talk. When I return. There's something I've been wanting to tell you."

Her breath hits the mic faintly. "And you can't tell me now?"

I could, I think to myself. It's a tempting idea. The rejection would be easier to handle over the phone. I could just hang up and blame it on poor connection.

"No," I say, offering little more.

"Okay. When you're back."

I lay down on the bed, relieved, elated. She occupies the space in my mind in an instant. I see and smell her as if she were standing right before me, and I imagine what it would be like to reach out and feel her. My imagination keeps me silent and she doesn't speak up. I don't really have anything else to say, but I refuse to hang up. We remain on the phone, breathing our silence into one another.

"Come to me," I say, surprising myself. I picture her knitting her eyebrows at this. My random moments of demand always did that to her.

"To you?"

"To my place," I correct. Please, I think. I won't be able to do it anywhere else.

It takes a while for her to reply. "Okay," she finally says. "I'll come to you."

I'm thrown over the edge in happiness. I'll tell her everything. I'll give her everything. And I'll do it without hesitation, because if I'm going to try, I might as well win.